


in my world (constantly, constantly)

by borzbois



Category: The Penumbra Podcast
Genre: Anxiety, Bouquet fic, Breathplay, Cunnilingus, Human/Monster Romance, Internal Monologue, Lizard Kissin' Tuesday (Penumbra Podcast), NSFW, Other, Polyamory, Porn With Plot, Second Citadel (Penumbra Podcast), Submission, The Penumbra Minibang, Threesome, Trans Male Character, arum’s kind of dom y’all, but we already knew that, gratuitous use of damien’s dumb poet brain, i’m not a scaley but i’m not a coward, the boys do some funky breathplay, trans masc damien
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-12
Updated: 2020-05-12
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:15:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24138727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/borzbois/pseuds/borzbois
Summary: The moments that Damien becomes viscerally aware of his existence are the most terrifying. It's a good thing his partners are there to remind him there is freedom in submission.alternatively, “the boys do funky breathplay”written for the penumbra minibang!
Relationships: Lord Arum/Sir Damien/Rilla (Penumbra Podcast)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 78





	in my world (constantly, constantly)

There are few places in this world where Damien feels truly at peace.

The world is complicated. Terrifying. The world is full of incomparable cruelties and scathing blemishes, of inequity and suffering. He has felt the flames lick at his heels and palms, threatening to swallow him whole in the cacophony of his own thoughts. He has been taught his whole life that to survive in the world, you must fight fire with fire or burn up.

Very nearly he has burnt up before, both literally and figuratively. He has come home with aching burns and scorched cheeks, retelling epics of his own heroics to Rilla as he lay in a hospital bed. She would listen patiently, though entirely unamused, trying to will herself to look anywhere but his bandages, muddled with seeping blood.

He has been taught his whole life that it is monsters that are the source of this chaos in the world, but he knows better now.

For a brief moment, he thought it must be people. He blamed himself, he blamed kingdoms, he blamed whoever he could. It is people's cruelty, it is people's selfishness, it is people's choice to do harm that puts the world in disarray.

Whatever he could do to right the world, he would do it. If he can just fix it all, all will be well. The flames of guilt that crawl up his ankles like tendrils will retreat back into the darkness which it came. Of course, this responsibility must rest on his shoulders, and his alone. He cannot trouble his dear Rilla of it, or even his beloved Arum, in the ravings of a man desperately struggling to balance the world atop his broad shoulders.

But he knows better now.

The true source of chaos in the world is the ability to exist in it. People and monsters alike are thrust from the calm safety of incubation, of the Saints' gentle cosmic embrace into the blinding light of day. It is jarring, to have one's expectation, one's understanding of the universe around you slowly turned on its axis, flipped upside down, forced to look at everything from a different perspective.

He has never been good at that. He can compose diatribes and erect verbal monuments with the power of prose alone, but they are all still only his perspective. They are his words, his thoughts, his movements, his way of shepherding the chaos of the world into neatly knitted rows of metaphors and stanzas. But even in their tight lines of order, seeds of pandemonium begin to sprout through the cracks like weeds.

The world can never be perfectly pure, perfectly just. To believe so is a childish fantasy, a dream for poets with their heads stuck in the clouds.

He sits at the bed of a winding creek, listening to the sounds all around him. He likes watching the water trickle through the stream, getting caught in nooks and crannies, flowing along the rocks and pebbles of the riverbed along the way. His feet rest in the swell of the current, the cool water flowing through the cracks of his toes.

It reminds him of Fort Terminus.

Fort Terminus had been ethereal. The cool mist that sprayed on his face had filled him with a sense of power, a sense of purpose. The roar of the waterfall as it tumbled off the edge of the world had encompassed his mind so thoroughly, so completely. It was one of the only things that had ever been loud enough to drown out the constant chatter of his own thoughts that run aimlessly through his head, never ceasing in their mindless torment.

Now, when Damien listens to water, it reminds him of that. It gives him enough of a sense of relief to calm him, to collect his thoughts, to take all the abstract concepts and feelings cluttering up his mind and organize them. They're not neat folders, not like how Rilla and Arum's thoughts must be, surely, but they are accessible. He can meander through them now, know where to find something even if it takes him a minute of digging. He doesn't trip and stumble over boxes and files left strewn haphazardly across his brain.

He doesn't remember this stream being here when they first arrived. But he doesn't know whether to chalk that up to his own memory, the adrenaline of everything around that time, or if it really wasn't here. Arum had told him that sometimes the Swamp can sense what it's residents need, and provides. Damien isn't sure if that's what had happened or not, but he is grateful for it, nonetheless.

He can come here when the thoughts run rampant marathons through his head, twisting and turning through crevices and hallways he didn't know existed in his mind. It's right next to the door to the lab, so he can come and sit here when Rilla and Arum need their quiet, and he can still hear a low murmur as they talk into Rilla's recorder or mumble to themselves.

But sometimes the sound of the water doesn't work, for whatever reason. He's not sure why.

He comes to sit at the edge of the creek, to drown himself out in the beauty of the world before him. He wants to fully bask in the green of the trees and moss, to focus on the smooth flow of water at his feet.

But his mind continues to race, almost as if his thoughts are thoroughbreds with their hooves pounding against a cobblestone track. As every thought passes by, it becomes harder and harder to breathe. His heart thuds against his ribcage, drumming insistently at the pulse point on his wrist. He can almost feel it throb through his litany of scars, from the thick ones that line his back and biceps to the thin crescent nicks on his hands.

There are few things more painful than the way his heart pounds in his chest, as it does now.

It feels as though his heart is simultaneously being sucked out through his spine and pulled through his ribs. It dizzies his mind, fills it with imaginings that pass as quickly as the beat thrumming beneath his skin. The cool wind kicks up leaves that dance on the breeze, the frenzied pulls of his own breath tasting the rain in the air.

For a moment it feels as though the pounding of his heart will never cease. He clutches at the rough linen of his undershirt, as if that will quiet the roaring of his blood in his veins.

Images flash through his mind, searing behind his eyelids one after another—

Rilla, perched on the cliffs of Fort Terminus against the raging waterfall—

— drowning, his small hands reaching for the surface desperately

the fear in her eyes, terror wracking through her body—

— won't anyone save him?

she looks to him for help—

— his lungs swell in his chest, pain bursting through him like fireworks

he is frozen

helpless

terrified—

"My dear honeysuckle?"

Damien lets out a thick gasp, finally pulled out of his own head. He had not heard his lover approach, startled at the sudden sound so close to his ear.

Arum places a hand on his shoulder, gentle at first, then slowly leans in to a knead at the tense muscles of his neck. Arum's thumbs are much thicker than a humans, the roughness of the scales digging in deliciously against his taut skin. Damien lets out a low groan at the feeling, sinking into Arum's touch without a second thought.

"A-Ah, thank you, Arum."

In a moment, the monster's touch ceases, Arum shifting to sit beside him at the bank. While Damien is already used to the cool stream, when Arum's toes–can he call them toes, really?—dip into the stream, he gives a hiss. Damien watches Arum's hood flare up briefly at the sudden change in temperature, the flap of skin fluttering for only a moment before folding itself back beneath his skin.

It is nearing sunset now, the gentle thrum of creatures in the swamp steadily growing louder. Fireflies begin to glow, hazy orbs floating through the air around them and pulsing beneath the layers of foliage. Toad croak as they begin to emerge from the safety of the wet muddy banks, brightly colored eyes twitching in all directions.

This is Arum and Rilla's favorite time to be in the swamp. They love to watch the way the swamp comes alive before their eyes, as though it wasn't before. Often, they huddle together to observe something particularly intriguing. Damien prefers to watch from afar, knowing that he'll only get in the way, but also to admire his lovers without interference.

He takes more time these days, to just watch. Listen. Observe.

Damien knows Rilla well, like the back of his hand. She is comfortable, a safe harbor amidst a storm that is always there to welcome him home with arms outstretched. He knows her quirks and ticks because he has spent years watching them—the way she will absentmindedly curl a lock of hair while she is deep in thought. The small upturn of her lips when she has won an argument—debate, bout, or whatever word she has decided to call it that day—and the gentle sigh of relief every time she folds into his arms after he returns home.

Arum is different. He is...enigmatic, surely, but not completely unreadable, though Damien will admit that it is more difficult.

There is a way that Arum's tail will flick, coil and catch over and over again when he is deep in thought, not unlike a cat. It only straightens out and relaxes once he has solved the puzzle, sometimes reaching out to coil gently around a pair of thick wrists tucked behind him in quiet satisfaction. Arum's eyes will practically simmer in mirth when he has solved a particularly difficult conundrum, the delectable violet in his eyes shimmering into hazy magenta for only the briefest of moments.

Damien recognizes that look well. It is the same look he is given when he is bound under Arum's control, splayed at the feet of his lord. Arum relishes in the control that Damien gives so freely, so willingly, so eagerly.

"Honeysuckle? Has your mind wandered away from us once more?" Arum's voice is warm, his honeyed tongue sneaking into every crevice of his healing heart, soothing and mending the cracks.

"Only for a moment, my dear," Damien replies coolly, despite the tremble in his hands.

There, Damien sees that delightful shift in Arum's eyes, for just a moment. "Do you...require another lesson, to still your exhaustive mind?"

The mere words fill him with a flash of delightful heat, tingling deep beneath his veins. It feels sinful, to crave another's touch like this – to crave a monster's touch, like this.

But Arum is no ordinary monster, and Damien no longer allows himself to dwell over such things. The Saints had given him but one life to live, and above all else, their commandments require him to fill it love.

So love he shall fill it with.

"Y-Yes, I think a lesson may be helpful," he mumbles, heat rising up to his cheeks. "I-It is just that the swamp is so noisy—and wonderfully so, my violet, do not misunderstand me—and at times it helps connect me to my Saints above but sometimes it is far too noisy and it fills my head with more rabble when I cannot already think from the cacophony that pounds in my head—"

"Shh, my honeysuckle," Arum whispers, forked tongue coming out to smell the desperation on him, surely. "All will be well. Quiet now."

The command is simple and gentle, yet the way Damien reacts, it is as if a switch has been flipped. He relaxes into the soft ground beneath him, the humdrum of activity around them hushes into the background. He can feel the silkiness of the grass and moss beneath him, wet and teeming with what he prefers to call the mid-afternoon dew – or, what Rilla calls "swamp sweats," when the humidity of the day settles as the sun's lazily reaches its peak.

He resists the urge to breathe in shakily, a dull feeling of arousal settling over him like a warm blanket. He focuses on inhaling and exhaling in a rhythm instilled deeply into his subconscious. Though his lips do not move, he repeats his prayer over and over again, leaning into Arum's relaxing form.

Saint Damien, lend me your tranquility, Saint Damien lend me your tranquility, Saint Damien...

One of Arum's arms has slid around his waist to support him, Arum's slitted nostrils inhaling deep at the crevice where his throat meets his shoulder. Damien adores this feeling, of being so desperately coveted by a being as powerful, as dangerous as his violet. He inhales again, just the hint of a shudder on his breath, unable to hide the goosebumps that break out along the skin of his arms.

"Hold for me, now.”

Damien feels the pinpricks of stars across his vision almost immediately, despite holding for only a second. But it is the surmounting of the inevitable pleasure that does so, the freedom of giving his control away that sends shudders of arousal all throughout his body. He continues to hold his breath, the once painful pounding of his heart softening into a fluttering thrum that resonates deep in his veins.

"And out...yes, that's good. In, again."

They continue this for a few minutes, until Damien is completely relaxed against his lover. His body feels heavy, his eyes closed as he focuses on his breathing and the sounds around him. On leaning full into the support behind him.

He remembers Arum and Rilla talking about how cute he looks like this. Long eyelashes fluttering against his cheekbones, soft lips parted and chest steadily rising and falling. He cannot sparse together how this draws their attention like it does, but he supposes he can't complain too much.

He cannot hear much of it, but Arum murmurs something not meant for him. The Swamp sings in accordance, a lilting melody he has become all too familiar with. Before long, he hears the creaking of the make-shift door and hear Rilla's light, padding footsteps across the soft, damp grass. She hums a delightful tune under her breath, reminiscent of some of the Swamp's songs but teeming with Rilla's fullness, her own special brand of beauty.

Rilla looks so delightful when she smiles, gazing upon them how they are now. Her dark eyes are soft and simmering in the slowly dwindling light, and just past the foliage he can see the sky painting a backdrop of purples and oranges behind her head. It casts a haze of red on the edges of her hair, and he's in so deep all he can really process right now is the flurry of colors around him and the softness of Arum's voice in his ears.

She kneels down besides them, and Damien almost protests at the idea of her dress getting stained on the grass. But he cannot pull himself out of the soft submissive haze that Arum has put him in, and he knows that even if he could, she wouldn't care anyway. Rilla has always been like that—fearless, headstrong, brave. Far braver than he.

And he is [—was?—] a knight! A protector of the realm, of the Second Citadel! He could do naught for her but blindly pander after the non-existent footsteps that had been left behind, weeping and bemoaning her all the while. It was disgraceful, he doesn't know how she can still respect him, how he can still call himself a knight, how—

"You're not following my instructions, honeysuckle," Arum chides, gently tapping a blunt tipped claw at his cheek. That same hand trails down his neck and torso, languidly opening up the front of his shirt as he does so. Damien shivers at the sensation of Arum's scales against his chest, warm and smooth. Arum trails his claws up and down Damien's torso, and his breathing soon follows suit with the motion.

In...and out....in....and out....

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/186807672@N05/49879511518/in/dateposted-public/)

As he focuses on his breathing, Rilla rearranges him so that he lays with his head in her lap. She strokes at his hair, which is admittedly in need of a desperate wash. But she does not seem to mind either way, a soft smiling still gracing her perfection of a face.

"Oh, my Rilla, my Arum," he begins, and immediately the two are smiling and rolling their eyes.

"Here we go again," Rilla murmurs with a chuckle. It is not malicious, he knows—their way of loving him, of appreciating what he knows is flowery praise and delicate syllables. The way that he speaks of love is the same as when Rilla sits to wash his hair and tend his wounds, or when Arum teases him in a duel. It is the way they all share their love, unique and personal—and so very, very treasured.

"If I was the world you two would be my moon and sun, my eternals—I cannot think of a moment that wouldn't be made better or more complete by your presence. Some days I ask myself why my head must be so full of static, to overwhelm me so, but it must be so you two may gently clear all the fuzz away, my darlings—"

He cuts off with a lilting gasp, as he feels Arum's hands dip lower and lower, brushing past his navel and soft tufts of hair that leads to his trousers. Rilla's hands tug ever so slightly at his hair, not enough to hurt but just enough to make him aware. To stretch, to pull him in two different directions as he continues to float along his own weightless consciousness. It excites him, a barely contained shiver running down his spine and filling him with a deep arousal that curls inside him.

"C'mon, Damien, you can't forget to breathe," Rilla remarks with a smirk, eyes sparkling in the light of the last sunbeams that creep through. "With me, now. In..."

He feels as though he is floating. It does not matter that he can feel the warm, wet dew beneath his back or his partners' hands slowly skimming along his skin. Their touches feel far away, like they are touching him through swathes of silk, and yet electrify every nerve along his body.

The sounds that had overwhelmed him so—the croaking of the frogs, the trickling of the creek, the constant hum of the Swamp—are quiet now, faded into a low buzz that thrums rhythmically through his body. All he can hear is the heavy flow of his own breathing, of Rilla and Arum's words turning over and over around in his mouth. It is only their touches that remind him that he does belong to this earth, that he exists in a corporeal form and that he is inexplicably drawn to their intoxicating presence.

Rilla and Arum kiss above him, her soft lips pressed to his snout. Arum isn't quite used to kissing yet, his movements awkward and stuttering, but he tries for them anyhow. His tongue slips out to whisper across Rilla's cheek and tickle down her neck. They're still not quite used to that, the way Arum inhales their scent, his little mannerisms that are so natural to him but foreign to them.

But Arum takes so much from them without any more than the occasional flippant remark, willingly adopting their customs, and it is only expected that they can do the same. They share moments of silence before meals, so that Damien may pray and so that Arum and Rilla may share an appreciation of the beauty of the world around them. All three of them curl up at night in an amalgam of a bed and a nest, their body heat warming Arum and the feel of his cool scales enough to allow them to sleep in the balm of the swamp in turn. 

Rilla's lithe hands undress him, pulling effortlessly at his buttons until the linen of his shirt falls to his sides, exposing his chest. She lingers lovingly at the edges of his scars, thick and mottled. This feeling is always strange, with the numbness by his scar tissue, her fingertips trailing along like ghostly memories just above his abdomen. She likes being able to see where the skin was pulled taut with thread, to imagine the delicate process of stitching him back together, a beautiful, methodical process.

It is Arum's hands that shimmy his trousers down, delicately trimmed claws careful not to catch on the fabric as they have before. Swirls of soft downy hair trail from his navel down, the lips of his vulva red and aching and Arum brushes along them, gentle but firm strokes to tease the feeling.

The two of them work him in tandem, as if Rilla is the Eastern winds and Arum is the Western, and he is just a poor mountainside in the middle, facing the brunt of the overwhelming but pleasurable gales.

They are an interesting force, the two of them. They're so similar in nature, but worlds away in execution.

Rilla is precision. She measures thrice to cut once, every action and step carefully studied, ostensibly planned. Her fingertips trail devastatingly slow down the dip from his chest to his navel, muscles twitching and fluttering underneath her though that does not stop her. She anticipates it, watching his reactions as if he was yet another experiment beneath her deft hands and sharp mind. He'd gladly be, he thinks.

Arum is quite the opposite. He finds an interest in the world of science, too, yes, but it is driven by passionate curiosity, by laws and whims understood by a power greater than himself. Arum is like a thundering volcano or a raging storm—explosive, heady in the air and absolutely breathtaking. The feeling he evokes in Damien is something feral, buried deep inside of him and part of him wants to let it out.

This feeling of submission quiets that part of him, satisfies it. He feels like he is floating along an endlessly calm sea, the smell of salt lingering on his lips, burning through his nostrils. He feels the flow of currents beneath him, pulling him along and keeping him adrift, but the tension is never enough to break the surface. It is a dizzying sensation, intoxicating and overwhelming and—

His cock is already hard and pulsing beneath Arum's deft fingers, his slick dripping as his lips are parted. The wet sounds that come from him cause a flush to creep up his cheeks, burning through his skin like a Swarm Shrieker's acid.

"T-This is obscene, my loves," he gasps out, trying to ignore the eye-rolling shivers that seem to punctuate every syllable. It's hard to think with Arum gently stroking down his length, Rilla's hands tangling in his hair, every pull sending him deeper and deeper into mindless bliss. "Ple—hah, please, you must—"

He breaks out in a strangled moan as Arum enters him. It's always strange, Arum fingering him. His scales always seem rough, feeling the ridges between scales through even his own thick calluses, yet inside of him could not be more smooth. It is ecstasy as thick fingers slide in and out of him, pressing against his walls and thrusting directly where it makes him see stars.

Arum always likes to push him. Arum likes to take him apart, see what makes him tick, and put him back together if only to watch his own handiwork operate. Damien supposes that he can't deny that he enjoys it, that it is part of the thrill of their relationship. Arum is enigmatic, magnetic, and damn if Damien didn't let himself fall prey to that every single time.

"Fuck, Arum," Damien breathes, finally conceding defeat to his baser desires. His hips roll into Arum's touch, hands reaching out to grasp at Rilla's skirts. "Ril—Rilla, my darling, let me t-taste you, please?"

She smiles at him, practically giggling as she pulls at a ribbon and her skirts drop to a heap beneath her. Her legs are tan and toned, sunlight glinting off the planes of her muscles as she kneels down. He wishes he could take his time with teasing her just as Arum did to him, but he finds himself in something of a frenzy by the time she seats herself, spreading her thighs on either side of his head. He immediately delves into her folds, chasing her taste on his tongue despite her initial squeals.

Her initial oversensitivity soon turns to a warm glow as he pleasures her with his mouth, tongue languidly circling her slowly pulsing clit. She slowly pulses her hips along a smooth rhythm, the head of her clit dragging deliciously along the length of his tongue. He pulls her into his mouth, giving it a few slow, teasing sucks as she gasps headily above him. He can taste her growing wetness, the salty but fresh taste trickling into his mouth with each pass of his tongue along the length of her opening.

Damien whines upon the loss of touch inside him, refusing to part from the sweet taste of Rilla's moans as he laps at her folds but wriggling his hips all the same. His cock pulses even in the open air, despite the layer of sweat that is accumulating on his back and soaking into the ground beneath him. The balmy heat wraps around him like a blanket, suffocating and comforting him at the same time.

A smooth, almost sticky protrusion ruts against his vulva and Damien lets out an audible gasp, clutching to Rilla's thighs ever harder. He mumbles against the sweet taste of her lips, punctuating every few words with a flourish of his tongue and lips against her.

"Oh, p-please Arum, yes—please—you must, you see—" He can practically feel Arum's sinister grin burning a hole through him, the tips of their cocks brushing together just enough to tease but not enough to provide any sort of relief.

"Yes, my honeysuckle? What is it? Use your words."

Damien whimpers as Arum's voice rumbles deep throughout his body, the sensation shooting straight to his cock. Arum is so much bigger than him, able to cover Damien's entire body with still plenty of room and more to kiss at Rilla's skin. Arum gets delectable like this – something about the feral way in which he responds, the way he grips Damien's hips, the way he—

Damien gulps a breath for a moment, reaching up with a thumb to play at Rilla's clit. Now that he has a chance to look up, he can see that her top has been cast aside somewhere in the grass, pinching a dark nipple between her fingers. Her eyes lock with Arum, foreheads pressed together, dark eyes against his piercing ones, and her fluttering moans do nothing but urge him on.

"Y-Yeah, Damien, go on," she says over her own stilting gasps, rutting into his touch. She looks down at him, lip pulled between her teeth in a smug smirk.

She loves egging the two of them on, watching them completely devour each other. Sometimes, she doesn't even mind if she's not included—more nights than he cares to count she has simply watched the two of them lose themselves to their baser instincts on a chair in the corner.

"Y-You make me feel so good," Damien begins, stuttering over the syllables, "as—as if I am being consumed by the very f-fires of the Saints themselves."

With this, Arum sinks into Damien's heat, and the smaller man cannot help but let out a keening moan, automatically parting his legs to pull Arum's hips ever closer.

"Oh thank you, my heavenly lord, for allowing me the pleasure of touching you, of feeling you—a-and oh, my sweet Rilla, my darling flower, you taste so sweet on my tongue that my lips can't help but pucker at s-such a— ah! Ah, oh, at such a scent."

Despite the burn in his cheeks and their breathy, playful scoffs above him, he knows that they adore his poetry. That there is nothing sweeter for them, all tangled up in one another, to hear the words that fall so easily from his lips. It means they are true, genuine, for he has had no time to think or to conjure up sweet utterances, only to let the first words that come to mind spill forth from his mouth like a foaming ale over the top of a pint glass.

"I have half a mind," Arum begins, hips moving in a deep, thudding rhythm, "to see how long you can last before your brain turns to mush."

"Y-You know it won't take that much, dear," Damien replies breathlessly, resisting the urge to let his eyes roll into the back of his head. "I'm already—"

Arum thrusts deep, the ridged underside of his cock brushing just so delectably against Damien's inner walls, the blunt edge hitting directly on his G-spot.

"O-Oh, fuck, Arum—"

Damien delves back into Rilla's folds with a fervor, the both of their whines and moans increasing in tempo. She rocks into the movement of his tongue, hips rolling faster and faster. Her scent is heady and overwhelming, coating his entire senses in a haze of flowering warmth.

Altogether, their rhythm slowly increases. Damien feels as though he is slowly liquifying, the only proof that he is made of substance is the ever-present tightening in his abdomen, walls pulling Arum in deeper and deeper. Their breathing devolves into heavy, erratic panting, their songs of pleasure only an accompaniment to the chorus around them. They can hear the Swamp sing for them, harmonies lifting and falling as they do, traipsing along with them in their melodic love-making.

Damien isn't exactly sure how long it's been when he comes, but he comes. It reverberates throughout his entire body, drawing shuddering cries from him with each roll of his hips as Arum continues to pound into him. He is tired, body threatening to sink into the ground beneath him but he continues to lap at the sweet taste of Rilla's clit above him.

She's close, too. Her hips roll into an uneven staccato, arms desperately clutching at their boyfriend for support. Her eyebrows are knit together in an expression of beautiful agony, thick bottom lip caught between the whites of her teeth.

"T-Talk to me, Damien," she gasps out, reaching down to place a shaking hand over one of his own that grips at her thigh.

His fingers replace his tongue within moments, and his brain, though appropriately mush, does its best to deliver the sweet words of praise her ears so desire.

"M-My sweet flower," he murmurs, circling her throbbing clit beneath his fingers, "my gorgeous goddess, no other woman could compare to the b-beauty you possess, I am but a sailor and you hold my siren song, and the saints thought to bless me with the sound of words on your tongue—Fuck, Arum!"

Arum's incessant pounding has built him up again, cock throbbing in the muggy air, the slick slide of his cock practically begging him to roll his hips along with it. He can feel the air shift around them, the Swamp's melody so subtly shifting as Arum shifts.

His knees are pressed to his chest now, Arum's dick thudding inside him at just the right angle to make his eyes roll back in his head. Pressure wraps around his neck, gently cutting off his air supply. The tips of blunted claws rest at the juncture of his neck, heartbeat thudding heavily beneath Arum's touch. He can hear Rilla yelp as well, another of Arum's hands coming up to grip at her hair, and her clit throbs in immediate response.

Arum always gets like this when he's close—possessive, animalistic, craving. It is unbearably sexy to be wanted so deeply that it spreads through Arum's blood as if it is boiling him from the inside out.

"Honeysuckle, Amaryllis," Arum murmurs, his voice a deep growl that sends a whimper through both of them. "You must come for me, my sweets. Prove to me that you're mine."

"A-Arum," Rilla sighs out, movements tightening up just enough for Damien to know that she's started her way to the peak.

He can't help his own eyes rolling back, and he can't believe his boyfriend is going to make him come again.

"Yes, yes, sing for me, darlings," Arum hisses, his lower pair of arms gripping tight at Damien's hips as he continues to thrust hard and fast.

"Arum, shit—" Damien gasps, tears threatening to fall from his eyes. "Feels—so good—"

"Damien, yes yes yes, right there—"

It is like a chain reaction, after that.

Rilla shudders above him, muscles in her thighs spasming almost uncontrollably underneath the palm of his hand. She lets out a series of high-pitched moans that ring as true as a swallow song, the multitude of voices from the Swamp harmonizing in turn. Damien tightens, blithering his lover's names over and over again amidst a string of uncharacteristic curses, mind slowly melting in the afterglow of his second orgasm. Arum finally finishes as well, a warm heat spreading inside Damien like lava as Arum's languid rolling hips slowly come to a stop.

They all collapse on top of each other, panting, desperately clutching to get as much skin-to-skin contact as they can, legs tangled together and torso contorting into strangely comfortable positions.

In the afterglow, Damien dares to open his eyes once more.

There is Rilla, perched with most of her body on top of Arum's torso, leg slung over to intertwine with his own, a slack hand resting just under his chin. Arum, whose side Damien is currently curled into, head nuzzled into Damien's hair despite what he's sure is an uncomfortable stench of their sweat.

Beams of sunlight flicker through the small gaps in foliage, a warm breeze moving through and gently kissing upon the droplets of sweat that drip down their skin. They land on Rilla's dark eyelashes that rest on her full cheeks, fluttering every now and then as her eyes twitch beneath her lids. Dust mote particles swirl around them with every even rise and fall of Arum's chest. In his peripheral, it almost looks as if the flowers around them are breathing with them, dripping ropes of bright amaranth blooming in time.

"Do you feel better now, honeysuckle?" Arum asks, the vibrations of his voice rumbling all the way through to Damien's bones.

He blinks, confused, tilting his head up.

"Better? What was wrong before?”

Rilla laughs, a sound like ringing bells in a gust of wind, and all Arum can do is smile and shake his head just slightly.

"Nothing, honeysuckle. Nothing at all."

**Author's Note:**

> i’m so excited that i got to work on this and i can finally share it! i would also like to thank my amazing artist that i got to team up with, who you can find here: 
> 
> http://www.twitter.com/.cryke_art  
> http://cryke-art.tumblr.com


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